The Deception of Torment
by SadonLaas
Summary: He did not deal in bribes, or threats, or petty barters. He dealt in pain. A gruesome, yet simple trade. Pain was his art, his trade, his job. He was Pain. But why did he hesitate?
1. Chapter 1

**Author Note: The mangled mess has been fixed. Please leave a review, and tell me what you think!**

 **Thank you, and enjoy.**

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He gazed at his assortment of tools. The tools he used to get the needed answers. He did not deal in bribes or threats. He dealt in pain. It was a gruesome, but simple trade.

New flesh was brought in, and it was his job to wring the confessions out, like a wet cloth, until they were all but dry. However, there was a catch:

Not even he knew what he needed them to confess.

He wrote down every word uttered, and let his superiors decide whether or not it was sufficient, and what They wanted.

They'd keep prisoners a week at least. No matter what. If the superiors were not satisfied, two weeks. More.

He was just making them talk until nothing was left. Until They decided nothing was left.

The groans of pain and pleas of mercy fell upon deaf ears. There was once a time when he cringed at the sound of their pained voices. Once.

He hadn't had a job for a while, and he was eager to practice his trade. What good is a painter if he cannot paint?

Just him and the new flesh, alone in a room, together. An intimate setting.

He shut and locked the door, to guarantee no disturbances. He was an artist. Distractions would affect his brush strokes.

It was a small room. Blood stains dotted the walls and floor. Shackles and chains lay about, attached to the floor and walls. Even the ceiling. It was cold here, the room was entirely made of stone. It was the ideal place to use his instruments.

After picking out his tool, he examined his prey, chained to the floor in a far corner, in nothing but rags.

Young Nord female, hair like a raven's feathers, amber colored eyes, full lips, soft features.

For a moment, she was beautiful to him. Just for a moment.

Then she started whimpering.

He rolled his eyes as he squatted to look in her pretty amber eyes. He had to force her chin up by grabbing her jaw.

"Please, have mercy. I've nothing to hide. I'll tell you all you want to know."

He didn't like hearing this, and wished he wasn't listening. He didn't know what They wanted to know, and he didn't know why that was, but he dare not question.

He sighed. Such a pretty Nord woman. Would he have to hurt her?

She started crying again, praying. Then begged him not to kill her. He stood, sighing again.

"Killing you is not my job." He said, silencing the sobs. He tugged upward on his mask, insuring it's security, and down on his hood. Only his eyes were visible.

"If I tell you everything, you'll let me go?" She asked, her eyes pleading with his own. He nodded, despite the fact that it wasn't entirely true. That's when words spilled from her mouth. He quickly grabbed his journal and wrote it all down.

"My name is Haelyn. I'm from a small village up north. My family has no title or fortune. There is nothing else!"

He knew better. Why would she have been captured?

He jerked her face upward, and she yelped. His knife edge traced her jawline.

"My brother is in with the Thieves Guild!" She cried, and he stopped, letting her go and writing it down. Surely this was what They wanted from her.

He gathered his things and left. He would be back.

The next two days were uneventful. He simply awaited the response his information would get. He felt quite pleased with himself. It wasn't often that he didn't need to spill blood. He had left the Nord prisoner in peace.

But on the third day, when he returned to the cell, he found her weeping in a corner, her face bruised. Who dared to interfere with his work? He left to inquire, and found the explanation behind the interference.

Bursting through the door loudly, he advanced the trembling female.

"You lied!" He grabbed a tool, and took her by the wrist. "I didn't want to ruin such a pretty face, but you gave me false information-"

"Did they hurt you too?" The weakly voiced question surprised him. So much so, that he just stared at her, and lowered the sharp torture instrument. Was she...concerned for him? His eyes widened, and though it couldn't be seen, his mouth was parted in surprise as well. She looked up at him with watery eyes, one of them nearly swollen shut from being struck. He felt his own wound ache as he stared at hers. Yes, they had punished him. Not succeeding at your role had it's consequences, he found. This was his first time suffering from failure. He was normally the best at what he did.

"I'm so sorry I lied." She grabbed his forearm this time. He flinched. "I didn't know what else to do." She started crying. "You would've hurt me if I hadn't made something up." Watching her, feeling her gentle grip on his arm, hearing her words he felt...

He felt pity.

The desperation in those beautiful, innocent eyes, it was... He shook his head. He needed to leave.

And so he stormed out of the cell.

Pity. It had been a long time since he felt it. And he did not enjoy it.


	2. Chapter 2

He knew every weak point on a being, both mentally and physically. He knew what would kill you now, or kill you later. He knew ways to make you suffer greatly, but never perish. Pain was his art, his trade, his job.

He was pain.

He should not feel this way.

Long ago, he stopped feeling pity. He was numb. Years of this left him unfeeling.

Why did he suddenly pity the woman he was supposed to torture, like so many others before her? Perhaps it was her beauty, maybe the fact that had seemed so sincere in her apology. She seemed concerned for him, and it confused him. The world was full of those who begged for mercy, and those who shouted in defiance, but he had never encountered a victim concerned for him.

He still had a job to do. The next day, he didn't bring his tools. He entered the room, and found the woman in the same corner. She looked up at his the noise of him entering, and he noticed the swelling in her face had gone down.

He leaned against the wall in the opposite corner, crossing his arms. Their eyes met.

"You will stay longer if you do not speak." He said bluntly. She looked down.

"To be honest, I can't remember much before this. Vaguely of home, and poverty, but nothing else." Her timid words made his eyes narrow in anger.

"They brought me a useless wench?!" He growled. She flinched at his harsh words, and reluctantly nodded. He shouted in frustration, and began pacing. The woman curled up in a ball and whimpered. At the sound, he rounded on her.

"Hush your crying, wench!" He paused when she uttered a few, almost inaudible words, asking him not to hurt her.

"I've no intention of hurting someone with no damn memory." He snarled, turning away to sigh in exasperation. He rubbed the bridge of his nose with his gloved index finger and thumb.

"What's your name?" The question was almost too quiet for him to hear. He thought a moment in silence before he decided to answer.

"Aeron." He turned to look at her when he said his name. Was that a... smile?

"Aeron is a good name, but, it means something sad." Her slightest of smiles turned into the slightest of frowns. "I bet you're good, deep inside. You're just too sad." She whispered to herself, but he heard. She paused when he turned to face her, his brow furrowed. "You are good, aren't you?" She asked, her amber eyes innocently looking for an answer.

"I'm good at what I do." He replied, his voice low. "That is all."

"You've never killed anyone, have you?" Another question. His lips curled in annoyance.

"I've told you, that's not my job." She tilted her head at his statement.

"You aren't allowed to kill, are you?" She said, and he narrowed his eyes at her. How could she just figure something like that out?

"They hurt you when you fail, don't they?" He just stared at her, memories flashing through his mind of others, and most recently, his, punishment. He became aware of an ever present burning on his back. The red hot metal, melting his skin... "They hurt you for not hurting me." She said to herself again, narrowing her eyes. "But you've probably known nothing else."

"Enough, woman." His voice was a menacing growl. She looked up at him.

"I'm sorry." At her apology, his only reply was a disgusted noise and the rolling of his eyes. Why was she so prying, and how did she know these things? His frustration reached it's peak. This was nonsense! He pulled the only weapon he had, his dagger. He pointed the dagger in her direction and her eyes widened.

"If you keep this up, I swear I'll carve the eyes from your head." He got closer, and leaned down to be close to her face. "I ask the questions, wench. Pry no further." His eyes met hers, and he felt locked in her gaze. He trembled with frustration, but she never flinched.

He had never been so angry, frustrated, or confused. Why did she have so much control over him? How? He hated it!

He stepped back, breaking eye contact.

"I didn't mean to upset you, Aeron." At her voice, he glanced at her. She was manipulative. Or was she genuine? Gaining his thoughts, he spoke.

"You will stay until you remember. When They," He gestured to the door. "are satisfied, you will be freed." She nodded in understanding.

"You won't hurt me?" She asked pathetically.

"If I feel like you aren't hiding something, then no. I won't."

He left her then.

Back in his chambers, he decided to wash himself and dress his brand, so to not get infection. He was tired of feeling filthy, unlike most of the other men he knew. He stood in front of a mirror and for the first time in a long time, really stared at his image. Pushing back his hood, and pulling down his mask, he almost didn't recongize himself. His auburn hair was kept at reasonable length, his bangs just hanging above his green eyes. He kept shaved, but he noticed that it had become harder to keep it that way as he aged. How old was he again? He knew he was the youngest of the people he knew. He thought he looked relatively young, and yet, so much older than the last time he analyzed his image. He undressed, staring at his bare torso, lean with muscle. Last he remembered, he looked adolescent. But now he looked more like a man. Where had the years gone?

He shook the thoughts from his head, and washed himself and his wound, embracing the pain, rather than cringing.

He was pain. He was torment.

And yet he did not torture her.

He redressed himself. Mind ever wandering.

You are good, aren't you?

What did that mean? Maybe, at one time, when he was a child. All children are innocent. Or perhaps, he was good still? How could that be possible?

He rolled his eyes, shaming himself for letting her words remain in his thoughts. He fell asleep, and dreamed of amber eyes, raven hair, and a meeting under very different circumstances.


End file.
